Cory Carlson

Watch

On his dresser my father displayed 
his many wristwatches—shining 
links, trifold clasps, polished crystal 
faces, some of them locked away 

in the dial combination safe sinking 
into the dark blue carpet behind 
his closet door. He could look pretty 
sharp, even kind, in his navy suit, paisley 

tie, the salesman. His wire-rimmed glasses 
windowed smiling blue eyes. Spruce trees, 
tangerine, and sandalwood scents warmed
in callused hands he rubbed together

like sanding blocks, slapping his face, tawny
finger straining under the garotte of gold
wedding band. He wore his white cuffs short 
enough to show off his silver OMEGA 

at the casino, hefting it like a pendulum, 
swinging an Old Gold to his lips, the light 
lasering off his wrist, sleeves long enough 
to hide the tattoo he got in the Corps, drunk 

in Okinawa, hopping off the back of a jeep 
to chase down the young man from the bar 
whose wrists were too womanly. His buddies 
watched as he bloodied his face, left him to die 

in a ditch—a story he let slither to my sister—
part confessional, part rattler. He dangled
the idea of leaving me one of his watches 
when he died. I tried one on once when 

he was in the shower. Its face was as big 
as a backhand, more artillery than jewelry. 
It hung loosely on my wrist, teetering 
on the bone—a shackle waiting for the hammer.

Cory Carlson is a Minneapolis-based emerging poet and stay-at-home dad completing his first manuscript this year with The Loft Literary Center Apprenticeship Program. His poems are forthcoming in 3Elements Literary Review, Thimble Literary Magazine, and 86 Logic.